


Museum date

by fandomfan



Series: James Dates [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Affectionate Teasing, Art History Nerd Times, Baroque Art (before it was called Baroque), F/M, Flinthamilton (the lady one), Honeymoon Phase Besottedness, James and Miranda Loved Each Other, London era, Smart is Sexy, Tumblr Prompt, terrible pick-up lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 02:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13180377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandomfan/pseuds/fandomfan
Summary: Miranda and James finally make it to the Greys’ art collection.





	Museum date

**Author's Note:**

> I envision this happening earlier than the previous date in this series, but in the same universe. You don’t need to read that one for this one to make sense, though.

They do not, of course, make it to the Greys’ art collection on the afternoon he and Miranda fuck for the first time. Instead, James has her in the carriage, astride his lap and panting, the both of them. And then again for her, by way of his mouth as she reclines back on the bench, muffling high, needy sounds into something James can’t see with his head buried under her skirts. Her flushed face and pleasured smile when he rises are all the art he needs.

When James calls upon Miranda a few days later, it is again with the intention of taking in the Greys’ collection, but they do not manage it. Instead, she assures his guilty enquiries that her husband—currently away from home—is aware of and encourages their affair. She goes so far as to produce a signed note in the man’s own hand as proof. Though James remains bewildered, he is distracted from worry by Miranda’s sly smile and tempting décolletage, and when she pulls his hand up under her skirts to show him she has forgone smallclothes in anticipation of their meeting... well, the landscape above the fireplace in Miranda’s dressing room looks rather nice as she braces against the mantel while he thrusts into her from behind.

They maintain the intention of the outing, but neither is very good at keeping hands off the other, and soon enough ‘visiting the Greys’ gallery’ becomes their shorthand for the pleasures of the flesh. They do quite a lot of visiting the Greys in those first weeks.

It is then quite surprising to James when, one day, he receives a note from Miranda inviting him to join her for a visit to the Greys’ collection, and arrives at the Hamiltons’ to discover she really does intend just that. He has already had to button his coat to cover his anticipatory excitement, but after only a few moments of kissing her hello, James finds his hands pulled from her tiny waist and his queue tugged sharply to remove his mouth from her fine throat.

“James!” Miranda laughs. “I am quite determined that today we shall fulfill our promise.”

Her mouth is pink from their kisses, and one stray curl has escaped its confining pins. No artist could hope to capture better. “Madame,” he begins, courtly as he can. “I hope by now you know I will eagerly fulfill you however you wish.” He raises one suggestive brow, and moves to kiss her again, only for her relentless hand on his queue to yank him back.

“That was terrible,” she laughs. There is a liveliness of spirit about Miranda that makes James forget nearly all the worries in his life. “I’ll not have a man of such low wit in my bed.” James opens his mouth to protest, but Miranda preempts it to clarify, “At least, not until later this afternoon.”

“My lady,” he acquiesces. He supposes he can bide his time looking at a few paintings.

Which is how they find themselves, weeks after the plan was first proposed, arriving at the threshold of the gallery in which the Greys’ display one of the most widely praised art collections in all of London.

The Greys themselves are out, but apparently Miranda summered with Lady Grey in their girlhood, and as such is given welcome and permission to wander the gallery at will with James. She does, considering sculptures on plinths and paintings in ornate, gold frames. James nods and hums and makes small noises of agreement. He is charmed by Miranda’s obvious enjoyment, even if he has not had the schooling necessary to share it with her.

“Their tastes are quite Catholic, to be sure,” Miranda is telling him as they pass a row of enormous, elaborately emotive paintings of lamenting saints.

James huffs a laugh. “I believe I could have told you that much, even with my utter lack of artistic knowledge.”

Miranda smiles that smile at him that is at once fond and slightly mocking. It makes him want to live up to and surpass everything she seems to believe him capable of accomplishing. She considers him for a moment, then says, “Come here,” and gestures him to join her before one large canvas. “Tell me about this one,” she says.

“Miranda, I’ve only just told you I know nothing about art,” James replies.

“Yes, but you’ve two functional—and rather lovely—eyes and a very clever brain, and you’re one of the most observant men I’ve ever known,” she says. James can feel himself blushing. Miranda smiles the fond and mocking smile again and urges him, “Go on, tell me about the painting.”

Right. It wouldn’t do at all to disappoint Miranda. He turns to properly study the painting in question.

“Well, it’s Christ’s descent from the cross,” he says, realising he does, in fact, recognise the scene. “There’s Christ in the center, and then everyone else around him is lowering him down. It’s quite...” he pauses for a word to apply to this heaving, swirling composition. “It’s quite _visceral_ , isn’t it?”

Miranda takes his arm and smiles up at him. It’s perfectly proper as gestures go, save the way her small hand pets praise into the crook of his elbow where it’s hidden between their bodies. “I agree,” she hums. “What else do you see?”

He looks away from the woman beside him to the women on the canvas. “That one with the blonde hair must be Mary Magdalene. Look at her reaching for him. You can practically feel his weight coming down towards her.” James will readily admit it is impressive, what this artist has done, contrasting the Magdalene’s rosy, live flesh side-to-side with the green-toned shadows of death in Christ’s leg. He says as much to Miranda.

“And look at the Virgin!” he continues, caught off guard by how much the painted figure moves him as he looks. “Her hands are so graceful, and her anguish is so transparent on her face.” He studies the blue-robed woman more closely. “Her skin is painted with the same purple and green shadows as Christ’s, isn’t it? It’s as though she, seeing her son dead, is already on her way to join him. It’s such an altogether human response, mourning a lost child. Truly extraordinary!”

He’s become caught up in the painting, and only now does Miranda tug firmly at his elbow to bring his attention back to her. She looks proud and pleased. “ _You_ ,” she whispers, “are extraordinary.” She glances around the gallery before saying, “Please kiss me, James.”

“What–“ He is caught out by her request. “I’ve done nothing special here. Why are you–?”

But Miranda hushes him with three fingers against his lips. She looks as fervent with affection as he’s ever seen her. “You are something very special indeed, and I want to feel your brilliant mouth against mine.”

Baffled but hardly complaining, he kisses Miranda softly and quickly. Or, it would be quick if she didn’t slide a hand around the back of his neck and hold him to her. She makes it something more than a mere kiss, stroking a wealth of meanings into his mouth with hers. It becomes a kiss as layered with significance as the painting they’ve been contemplating, and James feels liable to drown in it, in this glorious, quicksilver woman who has brought such vibrancy to his life.

With difficulty, he pulls back, watching her dark eyes flutter open before him, warm and wanting.

“Have you had enough art for today?” he asks, keeping his voice low, lest a passing servant hear how it wavers with his own warmth and want.

Miranda nods vehemently.

“Good,” James says. “Then I propose we leave here and get you home to your bed, where I’d like to get us both naked and put my mouth on your quim until you spend. And when you’re liquid with pleasure, I’d like to slide my prick inside you and take my time about it.”

“James!” she gasps, already swaying close in his arms. “Please, yes, let’s.” Miranda is hardly the swooning sort, but at the moment, it seems a possibility. “Take me home and fuck me.”

And while he still thrills to hear the coarse word on her refined lips, and while it’s true that what they’ve had until now has been in that spirit of fierce and free carnality, today he shakes his head. “Today wants something sweeter than fucking,” he says, still at a near whisper. “Today is for artfulness. Let us be artful with each other, as well.” And then, because he cannot resist, he adds, “For when you were made, surely the mould of Beauty was broken.”

Miranda makes the unrefined snort he expected. “That was simply awful, my darling man!” She smacks at his shoulder without any real malice. “I shall forgive you only because all that came before was divine enough to make up for the last bit.”

“And because you want me to pay you those attentions?” he teases her.

She nods, then gets a familiar mischievous gleam in her eye. “And,” she leans in even closer and whispers, “because you out of your clothes are a more beautiful artwork than any sculptor could hope to achieve”

He rolls his eyes and groans. “Now who is the awful one?” he chuckles, and leads Miranda back out of the gallery.

She laughs musically, and he realises he is probably very much in love with her. “Awful, perhaps,” she smiles. “That hardly means I’m wrong.”

Probably very much, indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> The painting James interprets so astutely is Peter Paul Rubens’ _Descent from the Cross_ , a version of which lives at the [Courtauld Gallery](http://www.artandarchitecture.org.uk/images/gallery/4c199f73.html) in London and was gifted to it by Viscount Lee of Fareham, whose given names were Arthur Hamilton. Indulge my art history nerd self and imagine the Greys gifting it to the Hamiltons, who passed it down until Arthur left it to the country in his will.
> 
> Miranda and James full-out loved each other, dammit! Come talk about it with me on Tumblr.


End file.
